Never Let Me Go
by Littlefoot the Warrior
Summary: Series of John/Sherlock one-shots, usually with a dark, depressing theme. Usually ends happily, though. Warning: might hurt your soul
1. Halfway Through the Door

He's halfway through the door.

Soft, subtly sobs whimper down the stairwell, quiet but loud enough for him to hear. His fingers trace the wrinkled wallpaper as he climbs the rickety stairs. He does his best not to make a sound, but when he missteps, the loud squeaking of floorboards stops the continuous crying from upstairs. The man on the stairs stays stone-still until the soft sobs resume. When they do, he finishes up the stairwell as if he were a ghost. The tall man on the top of the stairs hides in the shadows, careful to stay out of the bright daylight from the windows that threatens to reveal him. Faster than a flickering shadow, he crosses the beam of sunlight to the next shadow on the landing, in a vantage point such that he can see the sobbing figure.

The crying man sits hunched, with his back to the stairwell, holding a thin gold wedding ring. His wife had died three days ago, the funeral held earlier that day. Despite the mournful occasion, the sun had been ironically bright and warm, the rest of London cherry and lively.

They were married less than two years, the couple spending all that time at Bart's hospital; John, for his occupation as a doctor, and Mary, for having bone cancer. They were star-crossed lovers, knowing that Mary wouldn't last more than five years. The sickness took her sooner, claiming the only person he had left in the world.

Today was also the anniversary–three exact years after his best friend, the _one,_ committed suicide. It was a terribly hard day for John, leaving the short blond man a mess, only to be comforted by whiskey-laced tea, an old scarf that did not belong to him, and his former wife's wedding band.

The man by the door stifled a sniffle. The last three years has been hard on him too; he never stopped, not even for a moment, to rest. He wore the years on his face, in his eyes. Everywhere he went, he faced death and danger, untangling a web of lies, manipulation and power. After three years, he had burnt the web to the ground, and was ready to return home. As he watched his John cry there, on the floor of their once shared flat, he felt a deep pulling in his chest he had never felt before. It made him want to run to John, wrap his arms around his stout frame, and tell him "it's going to be okay." But the tall man knew it wouldn't be that simple. John would have questions. He would hit him, he would yell, he would cry more.

The tall man descended the stairs as quietly as he had ascended them, and left the open door from 221b Baker Street.

As he waited for a London cab to drive past, the tall man tooled back at the flat. Through the front windows, he saw John looking out at the sky, the sunlight illuminating his face. Something else was glinting in the sunlight, silver and metallic, held by John up to his own head…

"John!" the tall man shouted at the top of his lungs. John pulled the gun away from his temple, looking for where the deep baritone voice had come from. His eyes fell on the tall man, who was staring up at him in shock.

"Sherlock." He mouthed. The tall dark man ran back inside 221b, as John ran out. They met halfway down the stairs, stopping short of each other. John blinked, dumbfounded. Sherlock had tears pouring down his white porcelain face, as he pulled the stout man into his arms.

"I'm here. It's okay. I'll never leave you again."


	2. Old Habits

"Sod this!" John yelled, throwing up his hands in defeat. Sherlock glared at him intensely, eyes burning and face flushed with anger. The two always got into fights, but they never got this heated. John was furious at Sherlock for nearly every reason.

"So what then, you're leaving?" Sherlock yelled at his back as John sauntered toward the stairs.

"Yep." He spat back. "I'm out, Sherlock."

He hadn't bothered to go upstairs to get his things. The short army doctor left 221b Baker Street, heading towards the neighborhood where his latest girlfriend lived.

Sherlock stood in slight shock. John had never actually left the flat. He always just went up to his room.

He'll come back. He always does. John would never leave Sherlock, he knew how much he depended on him.

**5 hours after John left**

Sherlock played his violin. It was 2am, and John wasn't back. "_He's just spending the night, that's all._" He assured himself.

**24 hours after John left**

Sherlock lay on the floor of their living room, dressed in nothing but his pants. His shirt lay across the couch and his trousers across the computer desk.

John had not returned his texts, or even his calls. Sherlock picked his mobile up again.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

**7 days after John left**

Sherlock had been perpetually high for the last six days. He took no cases from Lestrade, and would not allow Mrs. Hudson to enter the flat whatsoever. The kitchen was hardly toughed, save the tea kettle.

He lay on the couch, legs stretched out beyond the physical length of the furniture. Needles and syringes lay strewn across the floor, some empty and some only half-full. He held one up now, as the heroin rush left his head. He looked down at the inside of his elbow; it had turned purple, bruised, a small puncture clean and precise directly on top of a thick blue vein.

Sherlock inserted the needle, sighing as this pain of life ebbed away from the simple touch of the thin, cold metal. He was lost without John; his absence left a hole on his chest, where boredom turned into carelessness and carelessness into a need.

He sighed as the clear liquid entered his bloodstream. The pounding in his head stopped, and his nerves tingled. He felt light; as of he could fly away from his loneliness and pain. His head hot the pillow as he dropped the empty syringe on the carpet. He bent his elbow up to stop whatever blood came out, his thumb pressed between the folds of his arm.

The door opened downstairs. Sherlock could not hear any more movement, his senses dulled from the drug. He had locked the door to his flat, keeping Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade from entering.

To his surprise, the door to the living room was unlocking. Sherlock found his mouth dry, and unable to produce words. He spun his torso around to see a dumbstruck army doctor looking down at the heroin den that was his living room.

John's eyes fell on Sherlock. The man was pale, paler than usual. His bloodshot eyes and greasy hair scared John, but none more than then thumb held against the crook of the elbow, and the dilated pupils that sat behind those gray blue eyes.

Carefully stepping around the sharps, John bent down to Sherlock's side.

"I didn't think you would come back." Sherlock coughed, voice hoarse.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock." John examined the puncture. He had never seen someone inject themselves with this much heroin without OD'ing. He supposed that the tolerance came from Sherlock's early years as an addict.

He picked Sherlock up to his feet, dragging him to the kitchen.

"Hell, if I knew that this is what happens when I leave, you'd never be alone." John grunted as Sherlock put all his weight on him.

He forced water down his throat and sat Sherlock in the bathtub with the showerhead running. John carefully picked up all the sharps with a towel, throwing them away.

When he returned to the bathroom, Sherlock was still sitting under the steady stream of cold water. When John looked at him, he couldn't tell if he was crying, or it was just the water from the shower. But the shaking shoulders told John that they were years.

The tall, pale, handsome man sat on the floor of the tub, clad in only his pajama bottoms. The short, muscular army doctor, in his jeans and leather jacket, climbed into the cold shower, to sit next to his damaged detective. He put his arm around the shirtless man, drawing him closer. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, quietly whimpering. John reached his free arm up to push the hair out of Sherlock's eyes. His left arm was purple from multiple injections; his chest stained a light brown from vomit. His skin was sickly pale, tinged a slight green.

Sherlock regained his voice, already coming down off his high.

"I'm so sorry, John." He moaned into the doctor's leather-covered shoulder. "I've disappointed you."

"Just rest, Sherlock. You need to cleanse your system." John replied, wiping more soaking black curls from his eyes. Sherlock nuzzled his head farther into his shoulder, sighing. John reached over to grab a washcloth to clean up Sherlock's voit-stained chest.

Letting the drugged-up man set in the cold shower a little while longer, John stepped out to dry himself. He was soaked to the bone, and rather chilled. He left to his room to change, and when he came back, Sherlock was hunched over the toilet, retching.

"You poor thing." John sympathized. He crouched down, stroking the taller man's back. He rubbed up and down his back with gentle fingertips, weaving in between each plate bump of Sherlock's spine. John reached over to turn off the shower, and pulled a towel off the rack above the toilet. Gently, he dried Sherlock's wet skin and hair, as he held himself over the open toilet.

He wiped Sherlock's mouth off with a new washcloth, cleaning him up. He lifted him gently off the ground, careful to not upset his stomach. Supporting him by the shoulders, John took him to Sherlock's room, to dress him in warm, dry clothes.

"John…" the deep baritone voice murmured.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he answered stiffly, shoving a cotton t-shirt over the man's head.

"I'm not perfect." He groaned sadly.

"Nobody is." He replied, once he got the shirt over his head. But Sherlock looked serious, making John revise his answer. "You are exactly who you are, who you should be. There is no _norm_ to what people are and what they do. 'Normal' and 'Perfect' are words to describe average people. But you're no average person, Sherlock."

"Then what am I?"

"You're beautiful."


End file.
